


You Always Live Again

by SC182



Series: Live Fast, Die Young (Bad Girls) [3]
Category: Fast & Furious (2009), Fast and the Furious Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Badass, Character Study, Experimental Style, Multi, Pre-Slash, Prompt Fic, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-23
Updated: 2013-10-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 05:46:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1014856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SC182/pseuds/SC182
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>I stole this life for myself and I’m never giving it back. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Always Live Again

**Author's Note:**

> Title from M.I.A.'s "YALA". 
> 
> Prompt from a mashup 100_prompts comm chart . Title and verse name taken from M.I.A.'s "Bad Girls".
> 
> Live Fast, Die Young (Bad Girls) Verse Summary: Toretto is responsible for the jackings, just not Dom. Basically, the verse where Mia is whip smart and absolutely badass. Or the one where Mia is truly Lucy Diamond (D.E.B.S).

She orders a drink— a beer since she knows better than to mix her alcohol. It’s not Corona, but some other Mexican domestic label that’s infinitely better and settles smoother with just a hint of lime in its froth rather than the spray of a full wedge. She won’t tell Dom about _that_ , or at least not yet, because in their time apart she’s changed—grown up really, and knows how change like metamorphosis can make unrecognizable entities of even the most familiar things.

Who is Mia now?

Mia Toretto is many things.

Mia Toretto is many miles away from home.

Mia Toretto is leagues away from the woman she was at eighteen. Has picked up enough dirt on her tires to know her way home and back again. But just isn’t—not yet—ready to turn back; not before she can finally pin down what she’s been looking for. Or truthfully, the answer to the question of _who_ she’s been looking for.

Tonight is a night for celebration, a night for goodbyes, and reflections on lessons learned.

The bar is another in a string of beachside hubs; nothing too fancy as to draw more than the usual mix of tourists and the occasional local looking to ply a trade of some sort. Mia chooses the thatch roofed bar with strings of kitschy rainbow lights and garish Mexican iconography because it’s the type of place _she_ ’s expected not to be in.

Again, another slice of experience served up piping hot and quick and Mia still bears the small puckered scar to prove it.  Her life, now, is governed by two sets of actions: those of Mia Toretto _before_ and those of the woman with more names than she has fingers and more than a few enemies cum friends cum allies for the right price; though Mia’s never the one paying for an alliance.

There are just enough people at the bar for her and Jesse to blend in but not enough to keep them cloistered. A foursome of co-eds obviously down for spring break are drinking too much and doing their best to live up to the rude American stereotype but one isn’t tanking as hard as the others  and Mia has to admit that she approves.

Mia hooks her chin over Jesse’s shoulder and half hugs him in a way that can only be interpreted as sisterly and inclines her chin in the nerdista’s direction, pointing out the one who has strawberry blond hair and cutesy cat-eye glasses that keeps giving Jesse the eye.  He’s giving her the eye right back, if just a tad more subtle, which only makes Mia’s smile broaden, because Jesse and subtle are two concepts that don’t often go hand and hand together.

“I guess this is the time where I say good luck, but I’m not sure that you’ll actually need any,” Mia teases, gently.

Jesse swallows hard like his throat has gone sandpaper rough, his prominent Adam’s apple sliding back and forth along the column of his neck like an errant pinball the longer the girl keeps him trained in her sights. This is good, Mia thinks, not necessarily meaning Jesse’s perpetual shyness with women, but rather that this part of his makeup hasn’t changed and still remains a stubborn constant.  Something that Mia can look to and instantly recognize as a part of home and her past, and, above all, the part of herself that’s an early twenty-something that just wants to go home.

She feels the wispy swish of her dress slide over her legs as she finally backs off. “Have fun, Jess,” she encourages, patting him on the shoulder, “I’ll make myself scarce.”  Jesse deserves this bit of fun.

Jesse finishes his drink and sets the bottle down with jittery fingers, small tremors that can be played off on his nerves to the unknowing and not as the result of lingering damage to the physical ones that Mia knows won’t ever completely heal. These are the scars he bears for her.

His gaze ping-pongs between the coed and Mia and Mia gently turns his head back to the mission ahead. “Nope, naw, uh-huh, I’m good,” Jesse babbles back, trying to resist her hold and failing to convince Mia that he isn’t hot under the collar for a college girl who is just a hair away from working up the courage and bona-fide feminist constitution to step up to him and sweep him off his feet. “Yep, I’m fine, totally fine, absolutely, yep,” he repeatedly chirps as he continues to watch the girl.

Mia clutches her beer, already putting some distance between them. “Enjoy yourself, Jess. Just keep your phone on and I’ll see you later.” There’s just enough bite in her tone for him to interpret that this piece of advice isn’t coming from Mia, his friend/pseudo-sister, but _Mia_ who has blown more things over as of late than La Niña.

Jesse nods, “Sure,” and sets off to meet the girl who is wading over, too. Seeing no reasons to linger, even if the girl strikes Mia as a maneater, she sinks into the waves of sun-drunk and alcohol happy people to find a spot for herself.  

She navigates through the sea of tables to reach the pier that extends over the ocean. She’ll miss watching the sun set over the Pacific. The sight has become as close as a friend in the years since she left Mexico City.

Yet, the time has come for her to spread her wings and fly to new places. Her instincts have never failed her and she won’t start distrusting them now. The tingle that rises between her shoulder blades nags more than irritates and the feeling has been growing more persistent as of late. Her new clientele doesn’t offer her any more reassurance either.

Giving over to the feeling, Mia now realizes that the time has come to leave Mexico completely. The thought of leaving makes her feel like a snake shedding its old skin or maybe a hermit crab going in search of a new shell—a home and source of protection.

Here, she’s done. She’s smart enough to know that motility—movement—progress, all of it is life. If an organism stops moving or a system stops functioning, then dysfunction and decline are the only possible outcomes. She’s come too far to slow down now.

In her line of work, as nebulous as it is, she can’t afford to be too accessible.  Once and only once has she made that mistake, and now she carries a fine scar across her back to remember that lesson. For a wound so superficial, Mia had bled like she’d been flayed.  Jesse had been her shield, though not an impenetrable one, and had taken a second shot until Mia had recovered enough to save both of their asses.

Mia remembers one of her dad’s lessons then. One meant for Dom ultimately like everything else, yet the point was never lost of her. Her father’s words ripple through her head in quiet moments afterwards when all she has is the sting of defeat, fear, and the unshakeable instinct to panic and head home but she can’t. Because she has his words: _sometimes the only way to win is to lose_. 

Remembers, also, the way things that are at their end tend to be remembered, that she asked her mother about her Pop’s lesson, and her mother stroked her hair and kissed her forehead, “ _Mija_ ,” she’d rasped, “ _You can only lose if you think you’ve lost, so nothing and no one, Mia Bella, can ever beat you if you don’t lie down to be beaten._ ”

Her father’s words are the ammunition.

 Her mother’s are the trigger, one that she squeezes with just a single keystroke.

Many people don’t know her name or where she’s come from or how to read her as anything other than a little girl gone bad, yet those that have crossed her have learned how bitter dust tastes when covered in it. Because she knows the physics of mechanics and the outcomes of what happens with the translation of force in a collision. Mia demonstrates that even the strongest men can break.

Mia raises her drink in silent toast to the sky and honors the memories of parents who would not recognize her and the car gods to whom the rest of her family has always been devoutly faithful. A smile curves her lips and she savors the taste and thinks of walls and how she’s come to enjoy tearing them down so very much.    

So she drinks beneath the clear night sky and sways to the strum and horns of the distant cords played by the mariachi band and commits the moment to memory. The music helps steady her thoughts like a guardrail, just curving subtle with the changes in their flow and steering them away from dangerous points.

School’s over for her; the degrees she began in L.A. finished finally. They may not bear her real name but the diplomas are hers regardless, and Dom’s put them with the rest of the family memorabilia. He’s proud of her, in spite of everything else, and keeps the home fires burning with thoughts that maybe, someday, she will come home again.

A year has passed and time has made her smarter and richer. Definitely the latter above all else. By the end of the month, they’ll be gone and Mia will find herself once again figuring out how to be that one unique indispensable piece in the machine wherever they may land.

One month, she thinks.

She’s not as alone on the pier actually.

In the muted halo of the lights, she sees a woman leaning against the wooden edge and feels that intangible tug from her gut that tells her to get closer and hear her story. The way she bows over—her tall, willowy frame bending in on itself though still coiled to spring by the rigid line of her subtle muscle—says it all; tells Mia that she has a story to tell.

The fact that she’s nursing a glass of something hard rather than a sugary umbrella drink tells Mia that maybe she’ll be sharing a story, too. She’s up for a good listen.

* * *

Her name is Giselle and takes one look at Mia’s car later that night and wears a soft feline grin, that’s more tigress than kitten, and says, “We should be friends.” Her voice is a raspy alto with a subtle accent that dares Mia to locate its origin.

Mia sizes up her again, then her bike, and agrees. “I think so, too.”

Mia hasn’t had a girlfriend like Giselle in a while. Not that Giselle is her _girlfriend_. Giselle is the type of friend that understands her loneliness and the weight that being the unexpected outlier brings the bearer.

They hang out in the near empty confines of Mia’s condo, sitting on the upper deck drinking mojitos and painting their toenails, pretending that neither of them has counted the passersby below on the beach every fifteen minutes or has a weapon tucked within the soft cotton waist of her soffe shorts (Mia) or sports bra (Giselle).  

Mia passes Giselle a couple of cotton balls and makes a guess. “I’m thinking here, just guessing,  so maybe you’re either a soldier, “ she paints another stripe without looking up, “or an assassin but you look too much like an actress or model or something. Like the Hollywood ideal, so I’m betting on the first two instead of the last.” And moves on to paint another digit.

Giselle hums, smirking slightly also focused on the meticulous application of her stripes. “ Your Hollywood sells the rest of the world lies. But some lies,” she huffs, catching a stray drop of polish with the corner of her thumb nail, “ aren’t complete bullshit. Sometimes there’s a hint of truth in the layers of garbage but I find most people aren’t willing to sift through it to find out.” Giselle finishes her paint and leans in to inspect her work.

Mia regards Giselle fleetingly and goes with her instincts and nudges her with the corner of her elbow to see her paint job. _Nice_ , Mia concludes.

 “So does that mean you’re here to kill me?” Mia is only half-joking, though her conscience that carries Letty’s hissing growl warns that _she’d like to see the bitch try_.

Giselle shakes her head and puckers her lips to blow over the blood red lacquer on her toes. “You were right the first time,” she answers, “Mossad, actually.”  Satisfied with her own work, she leans over to survey Mia’s and in the process presents the long planes of soft skin and corded muscle of her neck that attracts Mia’s gaze and tempts her to lean down to identify the specific spicy scent that makes Mia’s dark lashes flutter once or twice and buzzes the buds on the tip of her tongue.

“But you? I’m still thinking about it,” Giselle reveals, “You are …different.” Which makes Mia roll her eyes, smirking inwardly.

Different, yes, and Mia feels satisfaction that Giselle can see that. “Okay, so tell me how am I different?” There’s a purr in her voice which makes Giselle lift the corner of a sharply curved eyebrow and tilt the corner of her mouth as if to say, _let’s play_.

The boxes and wide open spaces of a purposefully spacious loft bring another vaguely appeased look to Giselle’s features after she looks inside the condo. “ Your entourage is lacking and leaves much to be desired. Plus, you have more tech hidden in these walls than your NSA. So you’re not a narco princess but something else. What, I don’t know. But it’s just you, I’m sure.”

Mia rewards Giselle with a sweet smile. “Neither do I. I like to think of myself as a journeywoman. Or a businesswoman. Whichever comes first, I guess.”

Giselle nod, obviously agreeing. “I like business, because it requires planning and sacrifice to be successful.”

Mia weighs what and whom she’s given up in order to achieve Giselle’s definition of success. “Then I must be sitting on top of the world, right?”

Giselle gazes back at her with eyes dark and keenly sharp despite the tropic sun that sends a cold bolt of recognition through Mia’s core. “Yes, and I will stand on an adjacent peak and wave.”

Giselle isn’t Letty. When Mia looks at Giselle, she feels like she’s being subsumed and tossed back in time to when she chooses her words carefully and keeps her fingers fleeting and tentative like hummingbird’s wings. Giselle relights a spark Mia has been devotedly nursing to bitter avail; even if no fire grows from it, it’s a heat that rises in her belly and spreads its way between her thighs that shocks her and whispers that she’s alive and not just living.

 She squeezes her thighs together before she rolls to her feet. “I could use some air.”

Giselle cuts her a naturally heavy-lidded look. “I was thinking the same and know just the place.”

* * *

They race each other and trade trailing silhouettes across the arid terrain of dirt roads and fields of cactus flowers. The aim isn’t to win or lose but to test which of them will find their limit first. Mia gets it then, different than before, how the hot mix of blood, power, and desire can be a drug more potent than any narcotic. This is one of those supposedly stupid boys things that she and Let used to laugh about, feeling somewhat superior to being above the base instincts that guys fall prey to when it comes to driving fast cars and how the thrum of the engine becomes part of the driver, how the vibrations can just sync with the fine tremors of human muscle, and can be plucked so finely to reach a counterpoint harmony.

Giselle edges close enough to tap Mia’s spoiler and stroke that her taillights. The glint of sun off Giselle’s black helmet is enough to force Mia’s thighs into an unbreakable clinch and her car shifts _hard_ , skirting the worn edge of the dirt track. Her eyes remain open the entire time: the colors of desert and sky merging into a whir of bright spots and electric sensation through her skin and down to her center which feels like it’ll never be dry again.

It’s not a loss, Mia concludes, when the dirt has settled and she and Giselle stand on the precipice of a red mesa and count the satellite towns below. Her one-handed drifting has needed work anyway; this is just a pleasurable reminder of why that is.

In a month, they forge a friendship. One that is cemented in the reverbing ache of rounds of target practice and where melons and ghosts yet carried help them hone their accuracy.  Giselle calls Mia’s pearled handled .45 _cute_ in the same voice someone would admire a kitten with a bow around its neck and proceeds to teach her the advantages of the supposed disadvantage of long willowy limbs.

In turn, Mia shows Giselle that a Desert Eagle and a Russian-made automatic can be muted in the face of the nuances of chemistry.  Mia insists in getting under her Giselle’s hood—both of them, and finds herself mesmerized by the blurred lines of foreign and familiar, intricate and simple, like the metal skeleton and rubber sinew of an engine or the plain pattern and thin wire molding bra cups.

While Giselle takes her for a ride on her Ninja and shows Mia that redlining lining isn’t the only way to ride the thrum of an engine.   

Giselle helps her to fill the empty spaces and silences.  With Giselle, Mia can finally:

_I don’t think I can ever go back._

_I think my brother’s in love with my ex._

_But I may also, sorta, be in love with his ex, too._

_I stole this life for myself and I’m never giving it back._

There are times when Mia gets to listen because, though Giselle doesn’t speak much, she has more than enough to say when she does. When Giselle brings her soul to bare, her consonants soften and roll into blunted edges that invoke shifting sands and light steps in ancient places. So she discloses:

_I do what is necessary because it is necessary._

_And the cost of what is necessary is only paid by the one who has to make the hard choice._

_It’s not sacrifice if you know what you’re doing and why you’re doing it._

_I’ll always do what has to be done._

* * *

Mia thinks Letty would like Giselle. Would mess with her until she easily proved herself sturdier than she looks. Then she’d turn to Mia and say, “Chick’s got balls. I like her.”

Letty may even respect her after a while which is harder to come by than a blue diamond.

And Giselle would give them her pouted smile and reply, “Balls are overrated.”

* * *

They both agree that the world is never quite large enough when running from something permanently stuck in the rearview mirror. What they figure out together over drinks and food that’s too heavy and sweet on the tongue is that as long as they recognize the difference between running away and leading the way, then they can never be chased.

At the end of the month  when Mia and Jesse prepare to move on, Mia gives Giselle burner phone with a phoenix stamped on the back. “If you need anything, even if you’re not sure what _anything_ is, give me a call.” Their fingers slide over each other during the exchange and the soft mingling of their skin and the gloss of their nails shows how well they complement each other still.

Giselle takes the phone and gives Mia one of her own, one with a snake on the back cover. “The same applies. If you need help with making the necessary choices, you know what to do.”

In another life, they could have something different than a lifelong transient friendship but this makes another story for Mia to tell one day. A good story to tell when more dust has settled and the shadow riding beside her is more than just the lingering reach of home.


End file.
